Month of Good News!

I love May! I love May! I can't say it enough.

May has always signalled new beginnings to me: It's the month I first moved to Montreal to start my first 'real' job after graduating from my Masters; the month I came to London. And now, it's the month where two amazing things have happened. I'll ration the good news for maximum impact (and annoyance, I'm sure).

So today is Good News Bit Number One:

I have a book being published!




24 Hours: London, an hour-by-hour listing to all the cool and crazy things there are to do in this city, is set to be released in the UK in August 2009 - with other parts around the world to (hopefully) follow! If you're in the UK, you can pre-order your copy through that behemoth beginning with A that I shall not mention for fear of annoying independent booksellers.

I kept it quiet in case something went awry, but now that the copy is laid out, the cover designed and it's 'pre-orderable', it might just be safe. The book was a ton of fun to write and research and it totally rekindled my love for the city. It is indeed a great place to live.

A few of the cool things in the book:

- London's ecological dance club, where the lights are powered by the movement of dancers on the dance-floor.

- The Kniterati, a monthly knitting book group.

- Colin Firth's coffee shop.

- An artists' collection funded by KLF with the money didn't burn (literally!).

- A 24-hour beigel shop once frequented by Mick Jagger.

-Ghost theatres, ghost hunting, and ghost stations.

And oh, so much more!

If you or someone you know is coming to London... well, you know what to do!

WAG: Memory Lane

This week's writing assignment is to describe something from memory. It's going to be short, as my mind is operating under a considerable layer of fog these days!

----
Her hard, puffy cheeks are frozen into a permanent smile. I try to comb her hair, but the yarn-like strands are too thick to even pass through the comb. My heart sinks in disappointment -- hair-styling is one of the things I'd been looking forward to most. Her body is soft, pliable; stumpy arms and legs jammed into a pinafore. She smells like a foreign combination of plastic and baby powder. I sit her down on the bed with the rest of my stuffed animals for company. Ten pairs of blank black eyes follow me around the room, and I flee to the safety of humans.

Oxford Street Slalom

Today was unusual. Not only did I leave my flat (yes, there are days I don't go into the outside world), but I actually -- voluntarily -- went to Oxford Street, the Queen of the Consumerism. I had an errand to run just off of the dreaded stretch. Heavy-hearted, I took the Tube and alighted at the centre of commercialism itself: Oxford Circus. Quick as a flash, I darted across the busy road and onto Great Portland Street, leaving the retching buses behind me.

Errand finished, I was determined to make my way back to the flat as fast as I could. I picked up the pace, negotiating the traffic, eyes focused on the roundrel lighting my way home. Oh -- what's that? Miss Selfridges? I'll just duck inside. Ooh, TopShop! The bright colours were a siren song temporarily blinding me. Zombie like, I trailed through the racks of clothing, my hands drawn out to touch the soft shiny fabric.

No. I must be strong. Back up the escalator and out onto the street, I dodge the demons of commercialism: shoppers clutching their treasures, possessed by their possessions. They fix me with their eyes, hitting me with their bags as they pass by in an effort to make me succumb.

I duck, I dodge. I try to cross to the Tube entrance, to take cover within the musty-smelling cavity, but my way is blocked by the side of a bus proudly displaying a Mango advert. I avert my eyes, push through the stand-still cars, and breathe in relief as I run down the gritty stairs to the Tube.

The Dreaded Form

Months after I originally started researching my application for British Citizenship, I still haven't submitted the form. Why? A combination of procrastination, lack of funds, and... fear of forms.

I hate filling in forms of any kind, especially those with the designated boxes for each letter. I have a 'form phobia', I guess. My hand-writing has always been notoriously messy -- in primary school, I almost missed the school-bus once because I had to stay behind to practise the letter 'q'. Then there was the day I was deemed 'bright as a button, but oh, so messy.' (Yes, I am traumatized.) So being forced to constrain my letters within the neat lines of a box is scary.

I'm also petrified of making a mistake. What if I miss something out? What if I spell something wrong? This fear goes all the way back to when I was completing my university applications -- rumours were rife of people getting rejected simply because they wrote outside a box.

I hate forms. Forms hate me. We are not companionable. And if I ever want to be a British citizen, I need to face the dreaded form with the pen as my sword.

WAG: The Results

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #11 was “Scaredy-Cat” Choose a stranger and observe him/her for a little while. Now give them a phobia. A full-on, jump on the chair, scream like a little girl, unreasonable fear.

And the results are...

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Dan Powell (New WAG Member!)
Alexia Brown (New WAG Member!)
Nancy Parra
Peter Spalton
Frances Wookey (New WAG Member!)
Christine Kirchoff
Nixy Valentine
Sharon Donovan
Melanie Trevelyan (New WAG Member!)
Iain Martin
J. M. Strother - Mad Utopia
Marsha
Carol

Next week’s Writing Adventure:
“WAG #12: Memory Lane” Thanks to Lulu for the topic idea! For this week, describe something by memory. It can be a place, a person, whatever you like. Include as much detail as you can as well as your impressions. If possible, then go and see this thing, and also describe how your memory of it was different from the current reality. What had you left out? It also might be interesting to include how your memory of it is different from someone else’s! No limits on this one! No rules to break!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. Deadline: next Tuesday, May 19th.

WAG: Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid

This week's assignment was to pick a stranger and assign them a phobia. Over the course of my regular Monday-night journey to my writing group, I encounter many souls to which I could easily assign one phobia or another. But one particular individual stands out.

My writer's group is in Marylebone, central London. For me, this necessitates the Tube to Baker Street, then a 10-minute walk down one of my most hated streets in London: Marylebone Road. I hate, hate, hate Marylebone Road. The wide lanes of speeding traffic, the few and far between crossings where you only have about five seconds to scuttle across the road, the dreaded tourist-swamped Madame Tussaud's... all conspire to make this one of most unpleasant locations in London.

Last night was one of the windiest nights I can remember, making the walk even more hideous. I picked up my pace, practically running down the road. I noticed a man lumbering down the sidewalk ahead of me. He jerked to the right, then the left, then back to the right again, as if he was dodging invisible bullets. I looked behind me. Nothing there. Was he crazy, or was I? Was there something for which I, too, should be pulling evasive maneuvers?

I rubbed my eye, trying to dislodge an errant piece of pollen the wind had smacked into me. Then, I looked up. With every gust, pollen streamed from the leaves above, hurtling through the air like miniature bombs. I looked back to Zig-Zag Man, still cavorting in front of me. With all the grace of an elephantine ballet dancer, he was trying to shield his body from the raining pollen. Nose streaming, eyes running -- for him, pollen was the enemy, representing long nights in the no-man's land of the sofa so his other half could sleep, the constant invasion of the cough into his throat. He would not give in to its insidious ways; he would fight against it at all costs.

Sadly, though, resistance was futile. He was felled by a sneeze, and with an anguished snort he succumbed.

Five Years in London

Hard to believe that I've been here for five years. Yes, time has flown by, but in another way it feels like a lifetime since I've left Canada behind. I landed in London with no job, knowing no-one.

Five years and three jobs later (what can I say, I get bored easily), I feel like this city is my home. I'm doing what I love (writing -- the only thing which doesn't bore me!) and living with a man I love. It's a good life.

I didn't know what to expect when I first came here. I didn't have any expectations, really, other than I just wasn't ready to settle in Canada. I'd gone back to the homeland ready to find a job and get back to reality after a few blissful years in Europe. A year and another university degree later, I knew I couldn't stay. So I set my sights in England, where I get a working holiday visa and find a teaching job.

I met The Man the week after I landed, got a job a month later, and life just sorted itself out. Yes, there have been bumps along the way but I have never regretted my decision to come to England. It's been good to me, and London is the icing on the cake. There's so much to do in this great city -- much of it for free. It's the longest I've lived in one place since I left the city in which I was born, and quite honestly I can see myself here forever.

Five years ago, I arrived not knowing the future. I still don't know what's in store, but I know it's in London.

Birdsong

Quite honestly, I've got nothin' today, so I'll leave you with this advert which always succeeds in making me laugh.

London Love-In

For the past month I've been working away on a non-fiction project -- a London travel guide -- for a deadline of today. It's been a great deal of fun and hard work, and has completely rekindled my love for London. I always knew it was a great city, but researching art collectives, late-night plubs (a unique combination of pubs and clubs all in one) and quirky museums has really made it evident that London is a city like no other. Of course, nothing in London is really 'hidden' anymore, but if you're not a local with five years to uncover it, you're probably not going to find that 24-hour Italian cafe or the world's longest playing composition (1000 years).

It's ironic that all of this comes just days before my five-year London anniversary. I arrived in the city on May 11, 2004. When I left Ottawa, the trees were barely coming out and spring had only just started. In London, everything was green and the air was balmy. I remember the drive from Gatwick to my flat in Highgate through the early morning M25 traffic, the mist rising from the hills. Later that day I wandered down Camden High Street, filling my eyes with the grungy shoe shops, tatty market ware and the prerequisite punks -- and I couldn't help smiling. I was in London, everywhere I looked was something interesting, and I couldn't wait to start my new life.

Five years later, I still have the same sensation (although this time on Kensington High Street, in west London). I love being surrounded with the history of the city, the push and pull of people from around the world expressing themselves and trying to make their way. The fact that museums are free, that you can wander through plethora of markets city-wide, that you can part all night in an undeground vault... and more.

I love London!

Toast, Ostrich and Bran Flakes

When I'm writing, getting hungry is just plain annoying. These days, as I'm trying to get through a seemingly endless (albeit interesting) stream of information, I really can't be bothered to fiddle around in the kitchen, let alone leave my flat for supplies. So, I usually end up eating something cobbled together from various leftovers in the kitchen. This week, I think, I hit an all-time low.

Yesterday I had dried ostrich meat.

OK, so it was biltong from South Africa, brought home (and forgotten) by The Man, but still. What's worse is that I actually mixed the meat with the one remaining egg we had left to scramble. Sounds disgusting but actually, it wasn't too bad.

Today I resorted to toast sprinkled with Worcestershire sauce, since we were sans butter. And then there were the days last week when I plundered the (generic) Bran Flakes, tearing through the large box at the speed of light.

I think I need to get out more.

Bank Holidays = Rain

People go on and on about the unpredictability of British weather, but there's one thing of which you can be sure: when there's a bank holiday, there's rain.

Sure, it can be sunny for weeks on end before the long weekend. It can be sunny on the Saturday and Sunday. But Bank Holiday Monday? Clouds will appear as if by magic, and liquid will drop from the sky. It's as if you can't have one without the other.

Last May, the Man and I planned a long weekend in Devon a workmate's housewarming party. The workmate had just converted a barn in a small village and wanted to have a big outdoor feast. We left London in the pouring rain. It continued to Bristol, through Exeter and all the way to our small B&B in Coleford, where it finally let up. Fingers crossed it held off, we trekked down the winding country road to where the party was to be held. Mercifully, we had a few hours of respite - and even some blue sky! But the next day - Bank Holiday Monday, to be exact - poured so much we beat an early retreat back to London.

I leave you with a few photos of the elusive sun (from last year). I'd like to summarize what I did this year for the Bank Holiday but it's more conducive to sleeping than reading.



Strolling through deserted village (they were all at the party).

The country road to the party.



A small cottage we ran across on the way.

The Curious Case of the Misplaced World

Oops. I meant 'word'.

This has been happening to me with increasing frequency. My mind tells my fingers to write one word, but instead they end up typing a completely different one! It's not a typo. It's like my brains and hand are disconnected.

Today, I was writing an email in which I meant to write 'looking out my window'... it ended up as 'looking out my winter'.

Is this just me? Do I have wrong-word-itis? Is my hand struggling for power against my mind? And is there a cure?

(Oh - happy May Day!)

Wag #9: The Results

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #9 was “Warning!”

And here are the results.

————————–

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Pallavi Agarwal (On Facebook)
Iain Martin
Peter Spalton
Nancy Parra
Nixy Valentine
Christine Segina (New WAG Member!)
Gunnar Helliesen
J. M. Strother - Mad Utopia
Christine Kirchoff
Sharon Donovan
Marsha

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

“WAG #10: The Professional” As we go through our days, we’re surrounded by people doing everyday jobs: the guy that reads the gas meter, cashiers, bank tellers, security guards, doctors, circus clowns… This week, your assignment is to observe someone doing a job (their profession should be one you don’t know that much about). Describe him/her and also what they’re doing, why they’re doing it (as best you can tell), and how. Feel free to use your imagination, but don’t forget the concrete observation! Special thanks to Lulu for this week’s topic idea!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #10 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, May 5th.

Want a Cool Accent? Just Have a Brain Operation!

I'm having a brain-dead day so I'll just leave you with this little gem from today's Independent.

BRAIN-OP ENGLISHMAN WAKES UP WITH FOREIGN ACCENT

Doctors were stunned when an Englishman awoke from a brain operation in the UK and started speaking with a thick Irish accent.

Chris Gregory was born and bred in Sheffield, Yorkshire, and has no family ties with Ireland.

But when he came round after three days on a life support machine in the intensive care unit, he spoke in a Dublin accent for almost half an hour.

Seeing his wife Mary standing at his bedside, the 30-year-old landscape gardener said: "You're the fabbest girl I know", and sung her a version of 'Danny Boy'.

But his accent had disappeared by the time relatives arrived at Sheffield's Royal Hallamshire Hospital the following day.

Now totally recovered, Chris and his new wife are planning to take a trip across the Irish Sea for the first time.

Mary, 36, said: "I just couldn't take it in at first, it seemed so comical, but it didn't matter at all because I'd been so worried about losing him altogether.

"Chris's Yorkshire accent had vanished completely, and he was talking like an Irishman all the time."

Specialists have linked the phenomenon to a little-known condition called Foreign Accent Syndrome which can affect the control of the lips, tongue and vocal cords in extremely-rare neurological cases.

Mr Gregory said: "I just don't a remember a thing about it - I wish I'd been able to listen to it all, but I don't have any recollection of what happened when I came round.

"I've never had any connection with Ireland or the Irish people, that's what makes it so odd, but I'm looking forward to going over there for the first time."

The syndrome was first discovered and named in Norway in 1941 when a young woman injured in a bombing raid woke up speaking with a German accent.

This article is from The Belfast Telegraph

What accent would you have, if you could choose?

WAG #9: Banoffee Pie Horror!

The assignment:

Choose an unfamiliar object (in other words, one you have no history with) that strikes you as beautiful, appealing, or somehow desirable etc… some ideas might be: a child, a sunset, an attractive shop window, a scenic view, a piece of art, an appetising meal in a restaurant… and write about it in such as way as to make it unappealing or even disgusting, frightening or repulsive to your reader.

My attempt:

It sits on the table, mocking me with its very presence. Squidgy bananas, soggy loaf and stringy, finger-sticking toffee -- who was the sicko that came up with that laughable combination? Its roundness is comically perfect, like a drop of goo flung onto a surface, thick enough to hold its ground. The cardboard-coloured cream icing, sitting rancidly atop, jealously guards its spoiled treasure.

Never have I detested banoffee pie more.

The Great Rubbish Bin Mystery

For the past few months, I've been plagued by the mystery of people rummaging through the rubbish bin across the street from my flat. I sit at my desk, look out my window, and watch normal-looking person after normal-looking person walk by the bin, take a rummage through, then walk off. What oh what is in there? Obviously not much, since I've never seen someone walk away with something. Yet day after day, it seems to drawn people in.

There aren't many rubbish bins on London streets -- many were removed in the 1980s after the IRA bomb attacks. So the rubbish bin is one of only a few on my very busy street. Still, surely that can't be enough excitement to merit a poke through its contents, can it? It's certainly not in my books, anyway.

One of my favourite bin-pokers is a small round man. He's balding on top but he's valiantly trying to make up for it by cultivating patches of curly hair on either side of his scrunched-up face. He trots past the bin at about 8 a.m., performs a search with great concentration, then trots off. He seems to enjoy it as much as anyone can enjoy rooting around in rubbish.

I could go over and take a look, I guess. But then, I'd be one of them. And who knows what happens once you succumb to the siren of the bin?

It's Crude to Be Rude

I was motivated to write this in reaction to something I witnessed today at my local Tesco's at Notting Hill Gate. In fact, I've witnessed similar incidents more than once: Customers deriding the staff who are only doing their jobs. It's dreadful to watch and, as a former member of the service industry, makes me very, very angry. In my previous part-time job, I was told to 'shut up', called 'stupid', and had my accent insulted. But I'm an educated woman with plenty of other options. I didn't need that job and could just laugh it off.

Most of the people who work at my Tesco's branch are immigrants. They probably don't have a lot of other choices available, and they likely don't make much money. They can speak English (at least all the ones I have encountered over my many visits there for the past five years). Yes, they do have bit of an accent. But it's not exactly a hindrance to scanning a grapefruit. Yet the number of times I have seen customers mock their accents or speak in loud patronising tones is cringe-worthy. And I'm certain those being mocked don't find it as easy to laugh off as I did when it happened to me.

I was standing in the queue with my £3 bottle of wine (among other things) when two men entered the store -- a big guy and his side-kick (possibly his son, but if so that's really messed up). Big Man jumps the queue -- a sin comparable to serial murder in British society -- and heads straight for the middle-aged Asian woman behind the till.

'Why couldn't 'e buy them cigarettes?' Big Man asks loudly in a strong East-End accent. He points toward Side Kick who's busy examining the floor.

The woman explains quietly and politely that it's Tesco store policy not to sell cigarettes to anyone unless they can prove they're over 18. I steal a glance at Side Kick, who looks about 16 max.

'I can't understand a word she's saying,' Big Man shouts back to Side Kick. Side Kick shrugs and the woman, now red-faced, repeats her explanation. The queue, by this time, has now grown exponentially and of course everyone is desperately trying not to look at the scene unfolding in front of us.

Big Man shakes his head. 'Nope, still don't get it.'

It's like a scene straight from 'Little Britain'. By this time the poor woman looks like she's about to burst into tears, and I'm about to clunk the idiot over the head with my wine. I don't want to break it, though.

'She said: HE CAN'T BUY CIGARETTES UNLESS HE CAN PROVE HE'S OVER 18!' I say loudly and clearly to Big Man before I can stop myself.

Big Man swivels to face me. He stares for a second then shouts over to Side Kick:

'Why does everyone in this bloody store have an accent?'

WAG #8: The Results

WAG #8 Results and WAG #9 instructions below. All are welcome to join next week’s adventure!

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group #8 was “Rose Colored Glasses“.

The results:

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Cora Zane
Nancy Parra
Peter Spalton
Christine Kirchoff
Gunnar Helliesen
Pallavi Agarwal (On Facebook)
DMW Carol
Marsha
Iain Martin
Lulu
Melanie Trevelyan

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

“WAG #9: Warning!” Last week the topic was to make something ugly sound beautiful, so this time let’s do the opposite! Choose an unfamiliar object (in other words, one you have no history with) that strikes you as beautiful, appealing, or somehow desirable etc… some ideas might be: a child, a sunset, an attractive shop window, a scenic view, a piece of art, an appetising meal in a restaurant… and write about it in such as way as to make it unappealing or even disgusting, frightening or repulsive to your reader. If you did last week’s topic as well (Rose Colored Glasses) I’d be very interested to know which of these was harder for you!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #8 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, April 28th.

WAG #8: Rose-Coloured Glasses

The assignment:

Go out and choose an unfamiliar object (in other words, one you have no history with) that strikes you as ugly, repulsive, annoying, etc… some ideas might be: a wad of squashed gum on the pavement, a dead squirrel on the side of the road, an ugly sign, a loud construction site, a tacky sculpture in a charity shop… and write about it in such as way as to make it appealing to your reader. Really sell it! Use whatever words you want and cheat as much as you want, but do your best!

Hm. I'm sitting here, struggling to think of something. Double hm. Triple hm. (Don't worry, I'm not going to go on in this vein for too long.) Well, I'm going to resort to something I saw last night on the Tube. You can always count on the London Underground for something repulsive.


The aromatic fumes grab my nostrils and turn my head. A succulent bit of roasted beef pokes out of a brightly coloured carton. Kermit-green lettuce clings artistically to its side and little bits of meat-mess adorn the bun. Oh, the perfectly toasted, golden bun. Sure, it's half gone but that just makes it that much more valuable.

My belly grumbles in response. Um, um... Burger King.


Right, I just need to make it clear that I DID NOT eat this. Yuck-o.

An Wardrobe Guide to Nationality

The city has come to life again after its long grey winter. Tourists are back (not that they ever went away) and bare skin is being, well, bared.

Sitting in the park yesterday and sipping my white wine, I devised an interesting game (for me - The Man soon tired): What nationality? Using only what the person was wearing as a guide, we would try to determine from where the individual hailed. The only drawback was that: a. Said person had to be speaking as they walked by so we could hear their accent/language; and b. We had to know enough of that language to identify it or the accent.

Here are my observations (yes, yes, it's a stereotype, I know):

Americans: Very easily identifiable, mostly because of their shoes. White sneakers, on both men and women. I have yet to see a British person wear white sneakers (or trainers, as they're called here). Also fanny packs (known as bum bags here - 'fanny' here means, er, the frontal part).

Canadians: Who knows? I can't actually tell the difference between a Canadian and an American accent. But mostly like Americans, I guess (treasonous, I know).

Italians: Sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses. Big ones. Jeans and short trendy jackets.

Spanish: Lots of clothes. The temperatures in London are equivalent to their winter.

French: Scarves. Tied in the way that only French people can tie them.

Polish: Red hair. I will never understand why a 60-year-old woman (for example) would want carroty red hair. It's a mystery to me.

Arab: Well, the head-scarves were a bit of a giveaway, although that doesn't necessarily make them Arabs.

Thus we exhausted our linguistic knowledge.